


(I Wanna Lie Down) I Wanna Ride in Your Car

by downjune



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2018 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Car Sex, Comfort Sex, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-18
Updated: 2018-05-18
Packaged: 2019-05-06 21:02:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14656182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downjune/pseuds/downjune
Summary: “Hey, can you drive home tonight?” Tanger dropped down next to him with a groan. “My head is fucking pounding.”





	(I Wanna Lie Down) I Wanna Ride in Your Car

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sheyrenawyrsabane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sheyrenawyrsabane/gifts).



> Inspired by [this late-night driving tune by Ryan Adams,](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UrpNOIPl9Uw) as well as by my recipient's great prompts! Hope you enjoy!

It ended when the buzzer sounded, but it’d been ending longer than that. Brian had felt it coming. Which didn’t make the wrong side of the handshake line feel any less shitty.

In the room, Guentz cried and wiped his face on Horny’s bare shoulder and didn’t seem to care who saw. Maybe because Horny was crying too. Geno said all the right things so Sid didn’t have to in the moment, and later, they would be comforting or reassuring or whatever. But right then, Brian could only look at Murr, who sat in his stall, completely blank. 

If Brian’d had his shit together this series, they’d be headed to Tampa right now. At least one goal a game was his fault. One fewer each game, and they’d have another crack at the Cup. This was on him. He’d done this, his first year into his brand-new contract. Fuck, Murr had deserved better, and Brian had—

“Hey, can you drive home tonight?” Tanger dropped down next to him with a groan. “My head is fucking pounding.” He dug at his temple with the heel of his palm, eyes squeezed shut, and Brian guiltily snatched at the distraction. 

“Yeah, sure.”

“I’m ready to be out of here, man.”

“I hear that.”

“Fucking depressing,” Kris grunted. He glanced angrily around the room, though Brian knew him well enough to be certain his anger was directed inward. 

“Right.” They were partners. This had been their defeat. So maybe some of that anger was actually for Brian, too. Oddly, that made him feel a little better.

Kris slapped his thigh. “Whenever you’re ready.”

Brian gave another quick "Yeah" as Kris stood and returned to his stall, his back straight against the oppressive weight of the room. Everyone would go out tonight to drown their sorrows. Brian had only been with the team for one other series loss—a first-round exit against the Rangers, and that’s what the guys had all done then. Brian had barely been up from Wilkes, so he’d stuck close to Olli, who hadn’t even played most of that season. 

He could, and probably should, make a case for going out with the other young guys tonight, but…but Tanger had his number. Tanger was Tanger, and Brian didn’t really want to talk to anybody else right now anyway.

*

They met in the garage, and Brian just managed to unlock his car before Kris yanked on the handle, impatient as ever. He dropped down into the seat with a quiet “fuck” and tipped his head back against the rest. 

“Did you take anything?” Brian asked quietly.

“Of course, I did,” Kris snapped back. “It was a fucking elimination game.” He rubbed the back of his head against the rest, like the headache had migrated there. By now it was probably everywhere. “They didn’t touch it this time,” he said, almost under his breath. 

Brian started the car and backed out of his space. It was a fear every player lived with after a certain point—when would the pills stop working? When did upping the dose become _a problem_? Brian had been lucky so far, by a certain definition. A busted jaw was a finite amount of pain.

He turned his music on low, just to fill the silence, and headed for the highway. But when he signaled to turn right and enter the west-bound lane, Tanger said suddenly, “I don’t want to go home yet.”

Brian darted a quick look over to see him staring out the window. “Where should we go?”

“I don’t care,” he answered. “Out of the city. Somewhere dark.”

Checking the traffic behind him, Brian darted onto the east-bound ramp instead. “You got it.” The engine rumbled as he accelerated and they entered the highway. The post-game traffic had cleared, and within minutes, the bright lights of the city lay behind them. He headed north on 66, and it was amazing how quickly western PA turned to dark woods and mountains. This was probably a terrible idea, but he’d committed—no point turning around now.

He remembered this drive from his days crossing Rt 80 from Wilkes, nerves jangling to get to the big city and the big team. This time he took the exit he always wanted to, if he’d had time and the right company. In the passenger seat beside him, Tanger dozed—the best thing for his headaches. 

Once they exited the highway, the trees closed overhead and Brian flicked on his high beams. Civilization may as well have vanished in the forty minutes it’d taken to get this far. They rounded a curve and the Beaver Run Reservoir opened up in front of them, almost black with no moon to light it. Brian slowed way down and pulled off on a gravel access road that ran parallel to the shore. Then he put down the windows, parked, and shut off the car, letting silence and the smell of fresh water flood in. 

After a moment, Kris started awake on a quick inhale. He yawned and stretched in his seat. “Where are we?” he asked with gravel in his throat.

“Somewhere dark,” Brian answered.

Tanger leaned forward to squint through the windshield. “What’s that?” he pointed at the water. 

“The reservoir. I always wanted to come up here—just never got the chance. The season’s so busy and everything.”

“So you kidnap me, huh?” Kris said it with a smirk, but Brian still flushed. Possibility sparked on his fingers and itched on his skin. He kept his hands on his thighs and changed the subject. 

“How’s the headache?”

Kris took a deep breath and rolled his neck until he got two audible pops. “A little better. I was so fucking tense at the end.” Silence stretched between them. Then, “How’s yours?”

“I don’t have a headache,” Brian answered quickly. 

“How’s the rest, then?” It was maybe a post-Wilson check-in, but Brian suspected not.

“Little, uh. Little messed up, I guess.”

“Yeah.”

“We handed them Game 5.”

“No, I did.”

“We did.” Brian regarded Kris steadily and hoped his expression was safely hidden in the dark. “We’re partners. We lost Game 5.” His throat caught as the enormity of it returned. Out of the playoffs. Out against motherfucking _Washington_.

“Are you mad at me?” Kris asked, startling Brian out of his misery. “Is that why you brought me here?”

“What?” Brian didn’t like feeling stupid, but he was pretty sure that was a stupid question.

“Is this where you hide the bodies?”

“Oh.” Brian exhaled a laugh. “Yeah, you caught me.”

Kris’s laugh was low and rough and tired, and it had been Brian’s favorite sound for…about three years running. He let his hand slip from his thigh closer to the gearshift. Closer to Kris. 

“I couldn’t. I couldn’t face them tonight,” Tanger said quietly, staring out at the reservoir. “Clean-out will be bad enough.”

“Nobody blames you,” Brian said, and hoped like hell he was right. “I bet they’re all feeling the same as us right now. Except maybe Guentz.”

Kris snorted. “Yeah, that fucking kid.” He scratched a hand through his hair, then returned it to the seat, closer to Brian’s. Brian looked down at them and had to look away.

“I didn’t want to see anybody,” Kris said. The words came out short and strange, like his mouth wasn’t sure of them. “But, uh. Fuck. We’re partners, right?”

Brian looked over sharply. “Yeah. Always.” He packed as much as he could into that word. More than probably fit, and certainly more than Kris would pick up on. He thought.

“I was healthy this year. I was supposed to lead you guys and look after Matt. Be solid for him and be a good partner for you, but I—”

Fuck it. Brian unbuckled his seat belt and jammed his thumb against the release for Kris’s too. Kris started to flinch back, but Brian didn’t let him. Hugs weren’t just for winning. They weren’t just for fights, either, when Brian needed to keep Kris from doing something dumb. They were for loss, too. Enough of the good-bro slaps and stick-taps bullshit. 

It was a little awkward with the gearshift between them, but Brian got his arms far enough around Kris that his face was pressed right alongside his, his beard scraping against Brian’s throat. 

“I was healthy,” he said again and tightened his arms around Brian’s ribs. “I took half the fucking year off last time. I was rested.”

“Dude, you recovered and rehabbed after major surgery. That’s even harder than hockey.”

“I can still do this—they know that.”

“Fuck, yes, they do.” It was instinct. That’s what he’d blame later when he turned just enough that his mouth brushed Kris’s, the half-kiss bristly with their beards. “They fucking love you. I—”

He cut himself off before he finished, but Kris bumped his forehead against Brian’s and said, “You, what?” There was a smile or a smirk somewhere in his voice, but there was something lonesome, too, so Brian didn't laugh it off.

“I…”

Kris hadn’t wanted to see anyone but him. Hadn’t trusted anyone but him. Here they fucking were, parked by a lake in the middle of nowhere, in the middle of the night. With their arms around each other. This was the moment, if it was ever going to come.

Tanger went for it first, because he’d always been the fearless one. Or he wanted everyone to think he was. 

He tilted his chin up and kissed Brian with his lips closed tight. Like a dare he'd given himself. Brian held very still, almost disbelieving the warm gust of Kris's breath through his nose, the way his grip tightened in Brian's shirt, and the thud of his own pulse in his ears. But it wasn't until he moved and carefully tasted Kris's bottom lip that they both came out of that moment of paralysis. 

"Fuck, Brian," he groaned—and Brian caught fire.

Kris shoved his hands up under Brian's hoody and dug his blunt nails between Brian's ribs, and Brian couldn't even think. He sank his fingers into Kris's hair the way he’d wanted to for years, and Kris leaned into it. 

“I want you to fuck me up,” he said, low and quiet. A confession just for his partner. “Make me feel it.”

Brian hid his face in the scruff of Kris’s beard. He scratched through the short hair at the base of Kris’s skull, and like he hoped, Kris moaned. “Yeah, do that.”

Brian did it some more. If he was going to make Tanger feel it, he intended to make “it” feel awesome.

“My car’s not really big enough for this,” he said, shoulders brushing the ceiling as Kris tried to pull him closer. 

“Had to buy the shiny little thing with that contract, huh?” 

“Just like you,” Brian reminded him. 

“Yeah. Wanna do it on the hood?”

Brian huffed a short, surprised laugh, too flustered to answer.

"Should have driven that classic Toyota instead," Kris taunted, shoving out of the passenger side. "You could do me in the back seat of that monster.

Brian's knees almost gave out as he climbed out of the driver's side.

"Me, and half the d-core," Kris added. "Or at least Big Rig."

They met around front, and without the gearshift between them, Brian didn't know how to close the last bit of space between them. "I love my middle-aged Highlander," he said instead. "And, uh, anytime you wanna fool around in the back of it, I'm down."

Kris’s teeth flashed in the dark. Then he turned toward the car and spread his hands on the hood, presenting his broad, beautiful back, muscle taught through the fabric of his shirt. 

That answered Brian’s question. He stepped in close and pressed himself all along the length of him, anchoring his hands across Kris’s front. He slid one down between Kris’s legs to find him hard in his jeans, and at his touch, Kris melted into him on a long exhale. At the first touch of skin to skin, Brian’s hand shoved down inside, Kris grunted a curse in French and hung his head, baring the back of his neck. Brian nipped the bumps of his spine and said, “You’re not allowed to come on this paint job.”

Snorting a laugh, Kris turned back around. “Then how do you want me?” 

He was rumpled and sad and wonderful, so Brian answered, “This is fine. Just like this.” He nudged Kris back until he sat his ass on the hood, and feeling bold, Brian tugged at the back of Kris’s knee so he got the hint and lifted both feet to rest on the bumper. Kris tugged him closer by his waist so they fit snuggly together, Brian held tight between his knees.

Once Brian got a hand on him again and his other back in Kris’s hair to tug him into a kiss, the world narrowed to the space between their bodies, the distance between one kiss and the next. Kris’s grip on Brian’s sides tightened and his breath sharpened until he made short, cut off sounds in his throat. They made Brian's blood race. And so did Kris's voice against his lips, "Gonna come," just before he shot all over his shirt and Brian’s hand. 

“Fuck, fuck, come here,” he mumbled and tipped backward onto the hood, tugging Brian with him. He fumbled between them until he had Brian’s dick in his hand, and his grip was so tight and rough and relentless, he had Brian shaking and gasping in what felt like seconds. Brian braced his clean hand on the hood and couldn’t even focus enough to kiss Kris’s mouth right there in front of him. Only when Kris had wrung every drop out of him could he manage another hard press of lips. Then he dropped his head to Kris’s shoulder and laughed.

“It’s not funny,” Kris grumbled. But he was petting Brian’s hair and his back, and—

“Yes, it is.” Brian nuzzled the thick muscle of his shoulder. “We just fucked on the hood of my car. This is one of the greatest nights of my life.”

“And we’re out of the playoffs.”

“Yeah, but…” Brian lifted his head. He knew he had a dopey grin on his face. His cheeks felt red as apples.

Kris snorted quietly and pushed his face away with his sticky, gross hand.

“Blech.” Brian reared back. 

“I need a new shirt,” Kris said, sitting up with him. “Did you bring extras?” 

“Sure.” Brian scrubbed his face on his sleeve and ducked into the backseat of his car for his duffle. He found a spare t-shirt and a practice hoody that only smelled a little musty, and when he brought them to Tanger, he was stripped to the waist, like a fucking dream.

“Man, I can’t believe we did that,” Brian said, tongue still slow. 

Kris snatched the t-shirt from him, and his scowl was visible even without a moon to light it. He shrugged into Brian’s clothes without a word. 

Questions piled up on Brian’s tongue. _Have you wanted me, too? Is this just playoffs? What now?_ But he didn’t ask them. Instead, he climbed up beside Kris and, after some shifting around, they leaned back together against the windshield, the reservoir spread out in front of them. His eyes had adjusted enough to the dark that he could see a few stars reflected on the surface. The heat of Kris pressed along his side kept away the chill in the air.

“Wanna get a room tonight?” he asked impulsively. He imagined Kris laid out on a bed under him, or over him, or _in_ him, and fuck. When he felt Kris’s eyes, he turned to see Kris watching him. 

“Or you could just come back to Montreal with me.”

Brian stared. “What?”

He’d said it like, _“You could just take the Turnpike instead of Rt 30.”_ But Kris was never that calm, not even about driving directions.

Kris looked out at the water, a familiar slope to his eyebrows. “You heard me,” he said.

Brian looked out at the water, too. Without much stealth, he wedged his arm underneath Kris’s, then slotted their fingers tightly together. They breathed the rich, spring air in silence for a while, and Kris rubbed his thumb across Brian’s knuckles, back and forth.

“You must, uh. You must like me all right, then, huh,” Brian said, unable to keep the words in. Needing to know.

Kris lifted Brian’s knuckles to his mouth. “You’ve been driving me home all year,” he said. As though that were the only explanation Brian needed.

He thought about Kris in the passenger seat of his car, hunched grumpily against the cold of a January night; with his head out the window after a wild win, hooting at Sid as they drove past; his temple pressed to the glass in the middle of one of his headaches. 

“Yeah,” Brian agreed belatedly. “I have.” He waited, but Kris didn't seem to want to say anything else. And Brian had at least one more question. "Do you mean tonight? Leave tonight?" He mapped it in his head. Across the state to the New York border, then straight north to Quebec. They could maybe make it in time for breakfast--coffee and bagels in Montreal.

"No," Kris said after a long moment. "I have to answer for this year. We can't leave tonight."

Brian nodded. They both had to answer. It was as obvious as running away was stupid and romantic, but If Brian could answer for Kris, he would.  

"When we go," Kris said. "We can take your middle-aged Highlander. And I'll drive." 

Brian looked over to see Kris smirking up at the stars. "Cool." 

~

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr!](http://itstartledme.tumblr.com/)


End file.
